The Reaper's Child

If you go to the field where the reapers now bind
 The sheaves of ripe corn, there a fine little lass,
Only three months of age, by the hedge-row you'll find,
 Left alone by its mother upon the low grass.


While the mother is reaping, the infant is sleeping;
 Not the basket that holds the provision is less
By the hard-working reaper, than this little sleeper,
 Regarded, till hunger does on the babe press.


Then it opens its eyes, and it utters loud cries,
 Which its hard-working mother afar off will hear;
She comes at its calling, she quiets its squalling,
 And feeds it, and leaves it again without fear.


When you were as young as this field-nursëd daughter,
 You were fed in the house, and brought up on the knee;
So tenderly watched, thy fond mother thought her
 Whole time well bestowed in nursing of thee.